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A time ago, Jason Todd believed in luck.
He would be lucky to find a drunk person slouched against an alley, a few crinkled notes in their wallet, or he was lucky to slip through the fingers of the cops who stand on the corner of the streets after midnight. Luck was getting to the shelters early enough to snag a warm cup of tea in a styrofoam cup, and then sneak away before the volunteers started to get concerned about children out on their own.
Though, he supposes, all that luck had to run out eventually.
The last of it was when Batman took him in. Everything that happened after that was just the leftover build up for all the times he managed to escape, just continuously kicking him in the back in rapid succession. Just one terrible thing after the other — which ultimately ended rather dramatically in some abandoned warehouse with a woman who was never his mother.
Maybe he should be grateful the universe waited as long as it did. He'd made it to fifteen, and then some.
In any case, Jason no longer believes in luck. It wasn't luck that dug him out of his grave, or drowned his brain in crazy Lazarus juice. It definitely wasn't luck that Batman didn't catch Red Hood and throw him in Arkham right beside the Joker. Jason Todd didn't have any more luck for himself or left to give —
— but maybe he didn't completely stop believing in it.
Because if Bruce Wayne, back from the dead, standing in the middle of the Cave with a bunch of other bat-adjacent idiots hovering around him just isn't damn luck then Jason didn't know what was.
It's so comical even, that Jason thinks he's laughing. He knows he definitely is when Dick shoots him a scathing glare, and he can't help but laugh some more.
Then to his absolute horror, his cheeks are damp. Jason Todd is laughing and crying and Bruce Wayne is alive. He's staring at Jason like he's never seen him before in his life.
"You sick motherfucker," Jason groans, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes to force them to stop leaking all over the place, and so that he can physically stop himself from staring at Bruce like a crazy person, "You just — had to one up me, huh? I was supposed to be the only unplanned zombie of the family."
Bruce grunts, and to Jason's surprise, actually formulates more than one syllable answer, "I'm sorry Jason."
There's a lot to unpack in the rare I'm sorry statement, and Jason thinks he's entirely too stupid to think Bruce is genuinely apologising for not staying dead.
Only when he opens his eyes again, cursing as another wave of silent tears fall down his face, he sees as plain as day the guilt etched onto deep lines that run across Bruce's face. He looks far too old for a moment, less of his usual classy and sophisticated oldness that the portraits of Thomas Wayne exude and instead, he looks exhausted .
Jason can't breathe, he can't even see because his eyes are filled with stupid tears. He knows that look, or moreso, he knows the feeling behind that look.
Bruce's eyes shift between each of the children in the room, his frown deepening as he takes it all in. Jason can see the way his eyes are stuck on Damian for just a few seconds longer, absorbing the entirety of his growth spurt.
Bruce had been dead for just over a year (a year, two months, seventeen days), most of that time in which Jason was doing him damn hardest to stay the fuck away from everyone. But even he'd returned in between the long weeks away with whoever was willing to run away from their own lives to see the visible change in all his siblings, specifically Damian. The kid was thirteen now, and he'd…
He'd grown up.
Bruce rips his eyes away from the boy to stare at the sofa behind him, hands balled into fists. Everyone watches his movement with heavy eyes.
"I'm so glad you're okay," Dick says for about the fourth time since Clark dropped Bruce off, a haggard looking Tim following close behind, not any less sincere, "I just — I never thought —"
Bruce smiles a little, but he could have frowned and it would have had the same effect, "I'm sorry, Dick." He says again, though this time, it sounds a little different.
It makes Jason bristle a little. Bruce's apologies were different and it's so damn obvious as to why. Dick doesn't seem to have noticed, since he's too busy sucking his own tears back into his head to read the tone.
Damian hasn't stopped looking incredibly uncomfortable all morning. At least Bruce gained somewhat of an emotional awareness to wherever the fuck he's been this whole time, since he doesn't poke at the boy. They share an unspoken and heavy look, one Jason completely disregards in an effort to not lose his mind.
Stephanie seems to have had enough of all the tension and the silent regrets, because she huffs, "So, where the hell have you been?"
This time, Bruce's smile is a little more genuine (in an exasperated way, as it always is in response to Stephanie's brashness), "I was running from dinosaurs."
Bruce dives into a criminally summarised recount of his travel through time while losing his goddamn mind and being held hostage by the universe — or something — with only the occasional prodding by Steph (who definitely doesn't believe the story) and Cass (definitely believes the part about the mediaeval bat-mob who chased Bruce out of town).
Jason hangs back while the others start to crowd the man. Even Damian shuffles a little closer to Bruce, not that he seems to have worked up the courage to say anything. Dick manages to push Bruce to sit down onto the Cave's chair, and while the others are distracted by the crazy-insane part of the tale, Jason marvels at how the chair engulfs Bruce.
Bruce Wayne, who has always been the largest man in the entire world to Jason, engulfed by his own chair. The way Bruce sits makes him look even scrawnier, shoulders folded.
Dick's hand lays absently on Bruce's arm, encouraging the story and asking questions to fill the gaps, and Jason knows he must notice it too. Bruce is still jacked compared to a normal man his age, but he's… pulling into himself.
Jason watches and wonders if anyone else realises that Bruce is still somewhat dead. That he's not come back whole.
(Jason knows exactly what that's like; to return and not be the same person you were when you left.)
For the week after Bruce returns from the kind-of dead, Jason ignores him like the plague.
It's not like he made any huge changes to his routine. He wasn't a frequent visitor to the manor before Bruce died, so him coming back made no difference there. Sure he could really use a repair on his bike, or a check of his helmet, all which would be made easier if he just used the cave — but he can also just tinker them at his own place.
Jason's confident enough in himself to admit that yeah, he is avoiding a confrontation. Solely because a confrontation with Bruce never, ever goes to plan.
For instance, he really wants to punch Bruce in the face right now. He doesn't really have a reason, nor does he really need one — except the hypothetical outcome doesn't seem all that gratifying anymore. Jason's between a rock and a hard place here, because on the one hand, Bruce coming back to life changes nothing.
On the other hand…
Bruce is back. Rather than a punch, Jason feels the overwhelming urge to just sit and stare at the man's face, trying to remember if the scar across his cheek was always there or if it was new. Try and work out if the dulled grey around his pupils that bleed into the blue is normal, or if something changed in him, if he brought something back from the dead that he should've left buried.
More than anything, Jason wants Bruce to do something first.
He hasn't felt like this in a while. Not since — not since he came back. Not since he came back and the only thing he wanted was for Bruce to show he cared.
It's all one never-ending story. The head that bites the tail sort of tragedy.
The second week, Stephanie seamlessly adds into their post-patrol debrief that Bruce got dizzy in the bathroom, fell, and cut his brow open on the side of the sink. Alfred didn't find him until two hours later, still unconscious and bleeding.
She then quickly moves on, telling him about what she discovered about their recent case in her stakeout with Damian. Jason pretends he hadn't even heard her, divulging all his new information to her as well.
That night, Jason goes to sleep with his heart hammering out of his chest.
The next day, he asks Batman (still Dick, for some reason) about Bruce's condition.
Perhaps, that was his first mistake.
Three weeks after Bruce comes back from the dead — or lost in time, whatever the specifics are now — Jason is put on babysitting duty.
"Dick tells me you've been trying to sneak out to play Batman," Jason rolls his shoulders, holding the padded target up again, "Did you forget you're forty-five and not twelve? Why don't you just walk out the front door? It's your house. Dick doesn't even live here anymore!"
Bruce lands a striking punch onto the target, but neither of them mention how it doesn't even send Jason staggering backwards like it would have a year ago, "Alfred's locked the door. And the windows."
They're not in the Cave, since Bruce has been temporarily banned from going down there when he tried to pull an all-nighter to read through every case he's missed in the last year. Instead, the two of them are in the Manor gym, which, although lacking the Dick Grayson exclusive acrobatic section or Damian's imported-from-the-league training weapons, does do a pretty good job in keeping the original Batman and Red Hood active.
He hadn't even wanted to come over, but Dick had taken his concern over Bruce's recent bathroom fall as permission to demand he play nursemaid. Apparently everyone else was busy, the return of Bruce sending them all running to do anything but stick around to have a normal conversation with him.
The knowledge that Alfred is also busy this evening, tending to more legal Wayne matters, is what makes Jason agree to come watch the man — lest his fall and crack his whole head open. Alfred wouldn't appreciate cleaning that out of his carpet.
“C’mon old man,” Jason taunts, raising the pad higher with a condescending smirk, “I know you can hit harder than that.”
Bruce strikes three more times before Jason watches him struggle to catch a breath. It's a jarring sight, so he immediately drops his hands, dodging Bruce's shaky oncoming punch. The man stumbles for a second.
Jason realises that even if Bruce did land that punch on him, he can't say for certain if it would have hurt at all.
"You're probably the only guy on the whole planet who wouldn't take a vacation when it's offered to him," Jason grumbles, "Just let Dick be Batman for a little bit longer. You get to relax. Who says you can't pick up the cowl next month?”
Jason watches carefully as Bruce pulls himself together, taking long gulps of air in before standing straight. Jason has a couple inches on him, but maybe because it's been a while since they've stood face to face, but Bruce seems shorter than before.
Jason takes a step back before Bruce can notice.
"I need to regain all the weight I lost before I can go out as Batman again," Bruce informs him with an unreadable tone, turning around to walk over to the benches with their water bottles, "Alfred has me on a diet plan. I'll also need to pass all the training levels."
Jason snorts, "That's cheating. You literally designed those levels. You'll beat them easily."
Bruce is quiet for a moment, before he sighs, stopping halfway to the benches, "I should be able to, yes."
That implies he's tried. Batman has tried to beat the training levels that all the Robin's could do with their eyes closed at thirteen and he's…
Failed.
Jason feels oddly sick all of a sudden. It's not exactly horror he's feeling inside.
But it is similar to a fleeting memory. A time before… before. When he couldn't even reach the front doorknob, there was only one bedroom in the apartment. Willis is gone for most of the year save for an envelope of cash he sends for school and food, sometimes a badly drawn picture and a letter from prison, and his mother is…
(Catherine is sick.)
"I'll be fine," Bruce grunts when Jason's silence grows uncomfortable, "Just need some time to… adjust."
"The reason I'm babysitting you is because I'm the only one who takes Thursday nights off," Jason says, seemingly changing the conversation so abruptly that Bruce startles and turns around to stare at him, "Steph and I have a deal. I do her route Tuesdays, she does mine Thursdays."
Bruce's brows are furrowed, confused as to why Jason's giving him a run of his schedule, "That's… good to hear. Taking a break is a wise choice."
You're one to talk, "We could do training every Thursday." Jason continues unperturbed, too preoccupied on running away from past memories to think about what he's offering, "Muscle building, sparring…"
Bruce is stunned, evident by the way he's closing and opening his fists by his side, grasping for something invisible in the air, "That's… there's no need, Jason.”
"Bruce," Jason says quickly, words spilling out of his mouth before he can stop himself, heart in his throat, "Just — it's fine. I don't mind."
Bruce looks at him quizzically (his cheekbones sharp from the weight he's lost around his cheeks), like he's searching for an ulterior motive, "You're sure?"
(Catherine is sick. She's having trouble washing herself on the bad days, when the pain starts to get too unbearable so she takes a couple pills from her purse.
Jason grabs a towel and a bowl and washes her back and arms, wipes her feet and changes her socks. She needs help getting to the bathroom when the pills run out and she's left with nothing but burning agony in between her joints. Jason lets her lean on him as they wobble to the bathroom. They only fall once.
Catherine is sick. If not from the pills, then because of the cancer eating away at her.
Jason isn't sick.)
"Yeah," Jason scoffs, walking hurriedly past Bruce to grab the water bottles, knocking their shoulders together, so gently, they barely touch at all, "Dick's no good at being Batman. He smiles too much."
He hears Bruce scoff behind him, but can't bring himself to look back.
The next time they talk isn't the planned Thursday training.
It's around midday on the Monday of the following week, Jason's halfway through making lunch when his personal phone vibrates on the counter. There's not a huge group of people who have that number, and the crowd is narrowed even further at who out of those people text him — so Jason's quick to check.
He immediately frowns.
Unknown
Alfred has instructed me to tell you that your presence is required on Thursday earlier than planned.
It's not hard to work out who's sending perfectly punctuated text messages. Jason's frown deepens when he tries to work out how Bruce got a hold of this number when none of the Bat's (aside from Alfred — the one least likely to share it with the others) should know it exists. He holds his half assembled sandwich with one hand to text back with the other.
Jason
Why
Jason
Also how thde fuck did u get this nujmber??
Unknown
He says there is a new dish he is trying out and would like you to taste test it.
Jason
Why cant yoiu do it? U live there
Unknown
He insists it must be you.
Jason sighs, dropping the phone with a clatter back onto the counter. His sandwich has become lopsided from his lack of attention, a piece of tomato slipping out the side, and Jason finds himself staring at it absently. It's almost relatable, in all its lopsided-ness.
Everything starts to feel unsettling very quickly. Even this morning, Jason was starting to regret offering to help Bruce with his training. It just made no sense for him to reach out so hopefully. In search of what? What is he hoping to achieve?
Maybe Bruce isn't the only one who's been slowly losing his mind for the last year, since Jason is certain this is not normal behaviour. Red Hood, offering to train Batman. Gordon would have a stroke if he heard.
But perhaps it's this absence of experiences that makes the idea a little more bearable. An entire year of no interaction, a year of thinking Bruce was dead, was enough time for Jason to recollect his thoughts and realise there should be more to his existence than living in spite of Bruce's ways. It was a reality check for a lot of people, with Dick's sudden responsibility and the change in roles for everyone — but it most certainly did wake them all up.
Bruce's existence had seemed so stagnant up until that point. A never ending, forever charging forward indomitable force of stubbornness and justice and slightly creepy bi-monthly check ins from the shadows.
But then, rather quickly, he was gone.
Suddenly, there was a lot to figure out in a world without Bruce Wayne.
"Man," Jason sighs, watching as his sandwich finally gives weight and collapses entirely, pickles and onions galore, "I almost wish he stayed dead."
(That's not to say it wasn't a good thing Bruce was back. Jason's just not sure anything would have changed if he didn't leave.)
(He wonders if thinking so makes him a bad person. Or, bad-er than he already is.)
Jason picks up the scattered sandwich pieces and resigns to eating it in its collapsed salad and bread form, grabbing his phone with his other hand.
Jason
Tell himn I'll be there.
Unknown
Okay.
Jason
How did you getr this number
Unknown
See you Thursday.
“I thought we were going to be training,” Bruce grunts, leaning to the side.
He manages to hit the ping-pong ball right before it flies off the edge, sending it back with annoying accuracy. Jason rolls his eyes, “We are. Ping-pong is great for coordination.”
Tim, who's not gathered the tolerance and goodwill in him to walk into the game-room and risk being confined in a room with Jason, walks by the open door again. He's got a slightly agitated but a mostly disbelieving expression on.
Bruce's got his back to the door and doesn't notice, but he looks equally as annoyed, “We've been playing for two hours.”
“Do you feel your coordination improving?” Jason asks, grin widening when Bruce is too late to lunge to the side, and the ping-pong ball goes rolling to the floor.
Bruce doesn't bother bending down to crawl across the floor for the ball, like he has been doing for the last two hours, given he's not one a single match, “No.”
Jason procures an extra ball from his back pocket, holding it up gleefully, “Well then, let's keep training!”
Bruce sighs, but like Jason expected, he falls into position anyway, eyes narrowing at the ball. If he can't escape Bruce's stubbornness to throw himself at a punching bag for hours every Thursday — he might as well make use of his competitiveness.
Jason also happens to be really good at ping-pong.
Bruce
It is Dick's birthday next Sunday.
Jason
No
Bruce
We are going to the penthouse to celebrate. You should come. Dick told me to tell you since you have him blocked.
Jason
No
Bruce
Okay.
Bruce
Shall we try weight training this Thursday?
Jason
No
Bruce
Okay.
Jason
I'm bringing a frisbee
Bruce
No.
"You know what this is kinda like?" Jason starts, catching the frisbee aimed at him with one hand.
He lowers his hand and throws it back to Bruce, who catches it with two, "What?"
"When you first took me in," Jason says as Bruce readies his next throw.
It's a shockingly exposing observation, enough so that Bruce fumbles at the last minute and the frisbee falls a few feet short. They both watch as it glides to the side of them, before Titus comes shooting round the corner of the rose garden to grab it frenetically.
Jason smirks when Bruce looks a little embarrassed about it, but quickly feels his own humiliation arise when he remembers what he's just said.
It's the third Thursday since their initial Training Thursday Throwdowns (named by Dick). Last weeks had contained more planning than actual activity, since playing ping-pong for four hours was a waste of time Jason. So they sat in Bruce's office for an hour deciding what each Thursday was going to focus on, before they took a jog around the estate.
In true Batman fashion, that hadn't been enough to sedate Bruce's insatiable energy, so they then did laps in the pool.
Or Bruce took laps in the pool while Jason occasionally jumped in to intercept him, claiming it was all part of the training experience. Bruce was not as amused.
The rest of the week passed by in relative unimportance. Patrols were almost suspiciously uneventful, or handled by someone else completely before Jason could try to help. Even Tuesdays doing the Bat's usual patrol route proved boring at best.
In some strange, dreadful way, Jason found that the following Thursday had become something to look forward to, even if it was an opportunity to rile Bruce up and not suffer any consequences. The first few minutes of their training is always filled with tense silence and even tenser smalltalk, but once the actual workout begins, Jason finds they quickly fall into recognisable habits.
It's familiar, in a distantly memorable way.
Perhaps it's this understanding that made him bring up a past they've done pretty good at ignoring for a while.
"We did try to build some muscle on you," Bruce suddenly says, and when Jason looks over he's sat down on the grass, watching Titus trip over himself to grab the tennis ball with a tight expression, "Leslie had you on all sorts of meal plans. You had to eat the most dreadful things."
Jason snorts, "I thought you liked the spinach and egg pies Alfred made us."
"I hated those pies," Bruce scoffs, but the amusement becomes a pensive sort of frown, "But I didn't want you to eat them alone."
Jason nods like this revelation doesn't hurt him as much as it does, slowly walking over, unsure how he feels about this sudden desire to talk about a past they've done well to ignore . Before Bruce had disappeared, they had gone out of their ways to interact as little as possible, and what few interactions they did have were… not the best.
Now, Jason craves the mundane conversations. No stupid codes masking what little honesty they had left.
"It wasn't too bad," Jason shrugs, lowering himself down to sit next to Bruce, a good foot of space between them, "I like eggs."
"I know," Bruce whispers, smiling when Titus loses focus on the frisbee and starts to dig his nose into the tall grass around them.
“You really hated those pies?” Jason asks again, because if there's one thing he's good at, it's stabbing a barely healed wound once more.
Bruce twists the blade as he smiles, looking far older than he has in a long time, “I really hated them. I remember the face you made the first time Alfred made them for you,” he laughs, picking blades of grass like a restless child, “But I knew you didn't like wasting food, so you ate it. The next time, I told Alfred to make me a plate too. We could suffer together that way.”
Without meaning to, Jason feels his eyes sting, and he looks away at the sun that's beginning to set over the hills of Bristol, “They were kinda gross.”
Bruce chuckles.
Jason gets a call from Alfred soon after his patrol on the Sunday of Dick's birthday.
Gotham had been suspiciously kind to him, with no major issues or otherwise long lasting property damage occurring. In true Wayne fashion, not even a national holiday worthy event like the birth of Dick Grayson was enough to stop the Bat's from joining patrol, but at least they didn't try to invite him again.
It's because of this understanding, that Jason answers the phone in confusion. Call it gut instinct, or incomprehensible green magic pulsating under his skin, but Jason's moving his feet before he's understood the full intent of the call.
“Master Jason, I need you to check on Master Bruce. He was supposed to arrive at the penthouse hours ago, but we can't seem to get a hold of him. Cassandra just left, but you're much closer to the Manor so —”
The time it takes for him to drive from his place to the manor must be a new record, given the smell of burning rubber that follows him as he rushes into the building. The lights are all still on, which means Bruce hasn't left, but his shoes and keys are left by the door, along with a book-shaped gift wrapped in batman themed paper, so he didn't even make it downstairs.
A few months ago, Jason would have made a beeline for the Cave. For some reason, he rushes to Bruce's bedroom, crouching to the floor before he's even fully made it into the room.
At least this time, Bruce didn't have a sink to fall into on his way down. Just his stupid rich-person rug.
Jason doesn't move from Bruce's side until the man opens his eyes seven hours later. He did it once before, but was fast asleep before anyone could say anything. This time, Jason watches his fingers twitch, then a grimace stretches across his face.
Finally, dazed and scared, Bruce blinks up at him, “Jay?”
Jason holds onto his hand, and squeezes, “Yeah. I'm here.”
“Why were you alone?” Jason asks, peeling an orange carefully, taking off the white skin and placing it into the bowl as well.
Bruce frowns, “What do you mean?”
“That day, when you fainted,” Jason reiterates, passing the fruit over, “You were alone.”
“Alfred went earlier to help set up the food so everyone could eat right after patrol,” Bruce tells him carefully, watching Jason's shaking hands curiously.
“Someone should've been here,” Jason mumbles, more to himself than anything. I should've been here.
Bruce doesn't say a single thing.
“This is unnecessary,” Bruce sighs.
Jason ignores him, tapping the back of his pen against the newspaper, “It's Thursday and you're on bedrest, so it's time we train your mind.”
“I'm fairly certain it's my body that is the issue, not my brain,” Bruce grumbles, glaring at the IV-drip he's attached to.
“Ah! Incongruous,” Jason exclaims, writing down the letters in their respective boxes, “That was a hard one. Okay, next; eleven letters down, starting with A, a person or —”
“Enough,” Bruce cuts him off sternly.
Jason continues nonplussed, “— thing that is chronologically out of place…”
“Go home,” Bruce continues, glaring into the side of his head, “Just — leave.”
Jason bites the end of his pen in thought, “How many letters is ante meridian?”
“Jason!” Bruce shouts, for the first time in a long time, startling enough that the pen slips out of Jason's grasp and onto the floor. The sound is muffled by the two extra rugs placed on the floor. Bruce's bedroom floor is so soft it could cushion a newborn baby.
The reminder of why that is exactly makes Jason grit his teeth, finally looking up at the man.
“What?” Jason demands, “You hate crosswords that much?”
Bruce's cheeks are hollow, eyes more grey than blue, but is menacing enough to rival that of one behind the cowl, “We can't train anymore. There's no reason for this to continue.”
This?
Jason opens his mouth to say the first cruel truth that comes to mind, but something about the entire situation makes him stop to laugh. Ever since Bruce collapsed in the middle of his room, covered in his own sick and sweat, he's been confined to the upstairs of the Manor. Everyone is walking on eggshells, Bruce's health has suddenly taken a turn for the worst, Leslie's running tests to no avail and —
“Jason,” Bruce starts again, softer this time, but not any kinder, “I'm not your responsibility. You don't need to do this.”
And that —
“Fuck you man,” Jason mumbles, standing to his feel so quickly it sends the chair falling back, hitting the floor much louder than the pen did, “I don't need to — you're so — fuck you.”
He doesn't mean to push past Cassandra at the doorway on his way out, but she must recognise a cowardly retreat when she sees one, since she lets him go. Jason thinks he might hear the all too familiar, regretful tone of his father call for his name, but Jason's body feels too big to control and he couldn't stop running even if he wanted to.
Catherine passed away in her sleep.
Jason was always glad for this.
He'd seen the way the disease and sickness kept her awake throughout sleepless nights, rattling her ribs and bones with every painful inhale. She could barely keep her eyes open towards the end, but she was very awake, forced into that darkness.
Jason would pull out one of Willis’ old books to read to her, holding her hand so she knew she wasn't alone. So he didn't feel as though he was either.
The day it happened, he'd still been holding her hand. Waking up to her skin colder and paler than usual was all the confirmation he needed, but he was still too afraid to look up to see her face. He didn't want the last thing he saw being her scared expression, sick and blood and regret pooled around her mouth, forever seared into his mind instead of her glowing smile.
But this was his mother, he was her son, so he looked up.
She looked at peace, for the first time in a while, finally asleep.
When next Thursday rolls around, Jason goes on patrol.
It's a bit awkward when he runs into Stephanie, doing her run of his route, but she doesn't ask. Chances are, her and every other little bat and bird are more than aware that whatever tentative truce he and Bruce had has well and truly burned over. It's embarrassing almost, looking back on how a single sentence had pushed him over the edge he was barely holding onto in the first place.
They divide the workload and continue on their separate ways. Unfortunately, it means he does run into Batgirl, who's scarily still and waiting over by a nearby rooftop for him.
The first time he sees her, he avoids her direction entirely.
Though it seems Cassandra only had enough space in her heart for two escapes, since the third time, she crowds him into a corner and dares him to try and escape. He could make yet another tactical retreat, since he's not getting out of this one going through her, but she starts to speak before he can.
“You are both looking for something wrong in each other,” Cassandra tells him blankly, “It is why you keep hurting.”
Jason balls his hands into a fist. He might not win this fight, but he's not really looking for anything fair either.
She doesn't even flinch, which is a little humbling, “He expects you to run, but you're not running, so he pushes you first. What are you expecting?”
“It's none of your business,” he lashes out, I'm expecting him to disappear again. I'm expecting all of this to mean nothing. I'm expecting him to give up on everything. I'm expecting him to give up on… me.
Even beneath the mask that covers her entire face, Jason can tell she's smiling, more than aware that her simple question has sent him spiralling about everything he's tried to avoid. Jason wonders if she did the same thing with Bruce, or if that particular conversation was left up to Dick to sort and handle.
Regardless, she raises her fists, and gestures for him to attack first.
When he opens his door the next morning, Bruce is standing there, holding a newspaper and a box of what appears to be Alfred's signature cookies. It's a peace treaty if he's ever seen one.
“Cass told me you two had a fight last night,” Bruce says in lieu of an actual greeting, walking through the entrance when Jason moves to open the door some more, “Did you go to Leslie's?”
Jason shrugs, “Nah.”
Bruce looks at him with a face only a man who's fought and lost to Cassandra Cain can, but he smartly doesn't say anything else as they walk into the living room. He does however, quickly place the box onto the coffee table, along with the crumpled newspaper, and immediately pull Jason into a hug.
Jason chokes, but once Bruce sways a little, obviously not prepared to handle his weight, he straightens his back and holds him back tightly.
Realistically, he knows Bruce is too thin to properly envelope him. He knows that he's now towering over his father — the same man who used to carry him with one arm when he was fifteen. The same man could still launch his entire weight into the air a couple years ago.
But even now, with Bruce being smaller and weaker than Jason ever considered, he still feels a world away. Jason feels unimaginably small.
“I'm sorry, Jay,” Bruce says quietly, pressing the words into the side of Jason's face, “I'm sorry son.”
“You're such an asshole,” Jason exhales shakily.
Bruce laughs a little, chest rumbling, “So I've heard.”
“Are you even allowed out of bed right now?” Jason demands, stepping away once Bruce lets his arms fall to get a good look at the man. He's not as pale as he was a week ago, thankfully.
Bruce rolls his eyes, “Yes. Leslie's still doing some tests and waiting on results, but I'm well enough to drive,” then, miraculously, Bruce looks a little sheepish as he adds on, “I would appreciate sitting down though.”
When on the sofa, Bruce takes a moment to sit down, clutching the small of his back as he leans back. Wordlessly, Jason grabs the nearest throw pillow and places it behind him. Bruce takes it gratefully, but he gets a funny look on his face when Jason sits down opposite him.
“What I said before,” Bruce starts, “I—”
“It's fine,” Jason tells him, throat unbearably dry.
“No, it's not fine, but I meant what I said. I'm not your responsibility,” the man continues, in a way that suggests he's rehearsed this entire interaction before arriving at this ending, “I might get better, and I might not. I might get even worse. But that's not on you.”
Jason can't look at him. He can't even look at the ground. He shuts his eyes hard and squeezes.
“I know that,” Jason feigns indifference, “I'm not looking out for you because I have to.”
“I know, son,” Bruce sighs, the sound of him shifting in his seat to get a comfortable position loud in Jason's ears, “You've always been a good kid. I suppose I just wasn’t ready to admit I needed some help.”
“That's awfully honest of you,” Jason says in surprise, opening his eyes a little to see Bruce's strained smile.
“Alfred has me on some really good painkillers right now,” Bruce laughs, “Don't get used to it, chum.”
That manages a bark of laughter out of Jason, purely because of how ridiculous it is. The air between them grows less heavy, easier to breathe in and out without feeling like it's going to strangle the life out of him. Even Bruce has managed to lay in an awkward position that seems to alleviate most of his pain, sighing in relief.
Jason breathes in deeply once more, chest suddenly cavernous.
“Bruce?”
The man has his eyes closed, but he hums in acknowledgement.
“I wanna tell you about my ma,” Jason says.
Bruce opens his eyes, watching him gently, “Okay sweetheart.”
Jason exhales.